


The Virtues of Destruction

by howisthataparty



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Accidental Self Harm, F/M, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of alcohol, Mentions of brainwashing, Nightmares, Post-Battle of New York (Marvel), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, aka the middling stage where they're super comfortable around each other, but it's hardly graphic so I think it's ok, but not lovey dovey, emotional torture, general loki is a sick dude who likes to brainwash people tag, hahahahahahhh, let's play are they actually in a relationship or not, mentions of torture, shared apartment in brooklyn, well it's gonna come with the story, you're dealing w/a couple of assassins here so blood is kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 06:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2218623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howisthataparty/pseuds/howisthataparty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's no secret that Clint still has nightmares and residual triggers from the Battle of New York. It's also no secret (at least between him and her) that Natasha isn't dealing well with the downfall of SHIELD. A bad day reduces the hardened spies to their most raw state with only each other to lean on for support.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Virtues of Destruction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [showmemytarget (ghosticries)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosticries/gifts).



> This was an idea given to my by one of my friends while we were rping on Kik, and it wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it down. The text conversation mentioned in the beginning was one between my Natasha and my friend's Clint where Natasha was having a bad day at work and Clint had some bad flashbacks, rendering him very wary about sleep.  
> I love exploring the effects of post New York Clint and post TWS Natasha, so how on earth could I resist?

Sometimes nightmares and flashbacks hit at the worst times. For example, on a day off (that’s one hand) and a during few meetings that turned into spats between a slightly egotistic man-bot and a guy who sees everything even with an eyepatch (that’s the other hand). Texting wasn’t a way to read anyone’s mind 100% accurately, but one conversation could tell her that the longer the day went on, the more Clint was winding up and sinking into himself. She’d only mentioned something about a good sleep after her trying day, and he’d only mentioned that he felt like staying up. Clint + sleep had been an inseparable pair for as long as Natasha could remember, so there was only one thing that she could think of to make Clint resist it.

“Head’s up — I'm back.”

The ever present, most likely tense, spy in the back of Clint’s mind couldn’t be jumped right now, so Natasha made her entrance into their nondescript brownstone apartment as textbook _her_ as possible. Memorizing each other’s routines had been achieved ages ago, so Clint would have ample warnings cataloged in the back of his mind. Three beeps from the car lock and a jangling of keys from outside the door could filter through the navy blue of an evening in the city, alerting any within that the entrance was friendly.

After putting all her paraphernalia away in their "coat closet" and making sure it was securely locked, Natasha wandered into the kitchen. She'd absolutely expected a somewhat spaced out, buried-in-thoughts Clint standing around somewhere.

What she didn't expect was him barefoot in the middle of their kitchen holding what was left of the stem of a broken bottle in his hand and shards of glass glinting on the floor around his feet.

"Clint?"

Slowly his head raised. Red rimmed his eyes and his nose. Clint hadn't been crying, because he never cried, but he'd dammed everything inside back so much that the pressure had started to show on his face. In an instant Natasha soundlessly came to his side and bent down to pick up the larger pieces of glass. He hadn't cut his feet that she could see, but his right hand was bleeding, accounting for the blood drops scattered over the linoleum floor. Enough to know that he'd gone too deep into his head and smashed his empty beer bottle on the counter. 

"Tasha....."

Natasha looked up at him, face blank except for what was in her eyes. That name meant something unspeakably deep or dangerous. About six pieces of glass were in her hand, and she stood, preparing to both listen to what he had to say and get a broom to sweep up the remainder of the shards.

"What happened?"

He sighed, shaking his head.

"I had a moment." 

It was Natasha's turn to sigh. She knew this episode was going to be like trying to coerce Clint into talking about his brother or the circus. It just didn't happen. Clint could be twice as stubborn as a goat and as tight as a clam, so Natasha inwardly girded herself for an evening of silent prodding, with an emphasis on silent. Maybe it could take a turn for the better, but it usually didn't. No use expecting something that wasn't likely to happen. Assuming the worst meant no room for disappointment. 

It didn't take her long to finish cleaning up the glass. Once she had Clint show her his feet to make sure there was no glass in them, she cleared Clint to move onto the living room couch before digging out the first aid kit from under the sink. She sat next to him, taking in his ramrod straight posture and blank forward gaze. A tiny twinge of irritation whined inwardly about " _this_ , of course _this_ after a long day of idiots yelling at each other for no good reason with her acting as impromptu mediator when she could get a word in _edgewise_ ". A thankless job.

Common sense did shove the twinge away before too long and Natasha laser focused herself on binding up Clint's hand.

"You're not a klutz. This didn't happen on accident," she quietly intoned, examining packages of band aids. She felt rather than heard the breathe whooshing out of Clint's lungs. 

"I just.....there was a flashback." Well, that was a start. "Had a drink, then another. Thought I saw him outta the corner of my eye and had to get my hands around his neck. Squeeze the stuck up life outta him for all the shit he put me through. I was almost there when he grabbed me an' -- well........" He looked pointedly at his hand. "'Parently I was still holding the bottle and my hand came down on the counter too hard. Could have sworn his hand was on my wrist. I had to shake him off."

Appraising her work, Natasha smoothed down the last piece of medical tape, then looked up.

"We've been over this," she reminded with gentle firmness. "He's gone. All gone. And you shouldn't drink so much when you're having those thoughts." A slightly hypocritical statement, but it fit the situation. And it was true. Clint rarely did what he'd done today, but _when_ he did everything went to hell.

"I know. S' just I second guess things every now and again." Clint looked hesitantly up through his lashes, lashes that didn't at all disguise his directness. "I know you do too."

Natasha gave Clint's hand back and let herself tip into the couch cushions.

"Maybe, but we've both learned how to compartmentalize. Put things in their places and get things done without them bothering us."

The archer scoffed. 

"You know you were always better at that than me." His voice then took a turn for the gentle.

"I know something's up with you, too. What happened today?"

The spy turned a glare Clint's way. 

"Don't go changing the subject."

"I'm _not_. If this is going to be some kind of counseling session, might as well be both of us in it. Come on, Nat. What happened?"

Sending her gaze out the window and into the almost pitch dark, Natasha waited before saying anything.

"Stark and Fury. A rare visit from Nick, and immediately they're at each other's throats about procedures and rebuilding this, that, and the other thing. I want SHIELD to be rebuilt - the right way, don't get me wrong - but......." She trailed off. Clint slipped his uninjured hand over Natasha's when a few beats had passed.

"After everything that's happened, I'd rather not  --" Clint squeezed her hand lightly, urging her to continue. Still in the process of wondering whether it was a good idea to say aloud what she'd prefer when most of her life hinged on doing something whether she preferred it or not, Natasha glanced down at her hand, covered by Clint's larger one. His was rough compared to hers, but just the right way. All his callouses and scars from fights and archery and the rubbed smooth places from holding guns were what made his hand so distinctive. Comforting. Grounding.

"....I'd rather not see him in a fight," she finally finished. Heaving a sigh, Natasha shifted her body in Clint's direction.

" _You_  need to stop picking fights with your thoughts. You know where they belong: in little boxes in the dustiest and most cobwebby corner of your mind, the place you don't go. Do I need to go weave some more webs to keep them quiet?" It was incredibly uncommon that she made spider jokes at her own expense, but she was willing to do it this one time if it brought Clint up from his foggy black funk for a little while.

It worked. Almost immediately he smiled, squeezing her hand again. Her offering hadn't gone unrecognized.

"That might just do the trick." He raised his eyebrows in amusement before tugging on her pale hand.

"Can we...." Clint finished by motioning towards their dark bedroom with his head. Slowly, Natasha started to smile a thin smile. She nodded and got to her feet, bringing his hand with her.

"Come on. I think we both need some rest." She could see Clint worry his lip out of the corner of her eye, but she dragged him up anyway. In their room, Natasha made a beeline for the closet while Clint leaned one arm on his dresser, picking at one of the drawer handles. Wooden squeaking noises told Natasha that he'd at last opened his pajama drawer despite his apprehension. That was a small victory, she knew. They didn't have to go to sleep right away (she'd have to tell him that once she exited the closet), but she would also tell him that things would be okay. That he could make them ok.

Running her finger through the air parallel to her hanging clothing, the redhead shook her head and spun around to Clint's side of the closet, taking one of his most well worn shirts off a shelf and shrugged it over her head. Perfect. It smelled like him just enough to put her at ease and take most of the tension out of her shoulders.

She walked out at last to see the archer lying on his side of the bed, eyes staring aimlessly at the covers he hadn't turned back yet. Natasha cleared her throat, and after a beat he looked up, instantly smiling. His old Buckeye's shirt hung off Natasha like she was an extra small wire hanger, but he liked how she looked in it. The sight made him a bit possessive and his eyes didn't leave her until she grunted at him to move so she could turn the covers down.  Once they were, Clint rapidly wriggled back into the bed and grabbed Natasha around the waist, pulling her flush to him. She snorted lightly.

"Now you're ok with going to bed, huh?"

"Well, when you're wearing that, yeah."

"I like this shirt. It's soft."

"So do I, but I think it looks better on you than it does me."

Natasha snickered, then tucked her arms between her and Clint, running her finger pads up and down the area beneath his collarbone.

"You'll get this under control," she said so softly the words may as well have been whispered.

"I certainly hope so. It's been two years already, I should have gotten it tamped down by now."

Natasha just shrugged. "It was a traumatic thing. There's no set time that you should have anything mastered by. If you rush it, if you push it, that might only make things worse. A day at a time." She felt him nod into his pillow once he'd given her words some thought.

"Day at a time, right." He drew in a breath before going on. "Be there to help me?" The sentence sounded too quiet and unsure for Natasha's liking, and she pushed herself back to see Clint more clearly.

"Of course. I'm not just going to up and _leave_. Not after......." She didn't need to finish. Not after HYDRA. Not after the revelation that SHIELD had been infected. Not after Fury trusted Maria but not her, letting Natasha think he was dead. Letting her cry silently when no one else could see. Not after she'd felt so alone.

Clint's arm around her waist got tighter. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I know you'll be here. And I'll be here too. For you. Whenever you need anything, if you decide you need anything." She almost smiled at his phrasing, but instead gradually dragged her hands down his chest before resting one hand on his side.

"We're a team." That was all that was necessary. The pillows rustled, and Clint found her lips and kissed her. Not hard, but decisive and assuring. He was answering her yes, among other things. He was reminding her that she wasn't alone, that he had her back. They were a team and they'd conquer their demons and the world's demons together. 

They were Strike Team Delta after all, the best pair of agents the old SHIELD possessed, and why split up a good thing when it was working so well?

Almost a minute went by before Clint relinquished his claim on Natasha's mouth, but he kept his arm around her waist and she kept her hand on his side. There was hardly any space between them, and that was just how they liked it.

It wasn't long before both of them were dozing off.


End file.
